Holiday Traditions
by highlands girl
Summary: Holiday traditions have the potential to bring people together.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: Very special thanks to Dog in the Manger for her help with this story. I'm lucky to have her as a beta but even luckier to have her as a friend._

_Merry Christmas to all!_

As she edged down Ferry Street, looking for a parking spot big enough to accommodate the Buick, she had to wipe a bead of sweat off her forehead.

The heater in Big Blue had only two settings that worked:_ Off_ and _August in Arizona. _Although an Arctic cold front had besieged New Jersey for the last week, it was sweltering inside the car.

The dry heat blowing in her face certainly wasn't helping the throbbing in her temples and the vise-like pressure at the base of her skull. The headache had started in the madness that was the mall on Christmas Eve morning. That's where she had been, trying to finish her last minute shopping, when she had received the frantic phone call from her mother.

Ever the dutiful daughter, _insert eye roll here_ she thought ruefully, she had paid for her purchases, climbed into the Buick, and joined the bumper-to-bumper traffic on I-95 North. The drive that normally took an hour stretched to nearly two and there was a decided lack of holiday spirit on the turnpike. She'd been nearly run off the road by a Volvo station wagon decked out with a huge Christmas wreath and a red bow.

Her Uncle Sandor's car had proven itself to be nearly indestructible, but it had its idiosyncrasies. The heater was one and the radio was another. She should have just turned it off, when she realized that it was only picking up two stations today. She'd opted for the one playing Christmas songs rather than evangelical talk radio, but maybe that hadn't been the best choice. _Peace on earth, good will toward men… honestly?_ she thought.

Nearly two blocks past her destination, she found an empty meter and maneuvered Big Blue against the curb. As she stepped up onto the icy sidewalk, her hand went to the back of her neck, hoping to rub away some of ache. That's when she felt the telltale tingle, just before a warm hand covered hers and took over massaging her tight muscles.

"Babe."

The deep voice was familiar, as was the touch. The hint of Bulgari was unmistakable. The sight, though… not so much. She spun around and found herself blinking at him in the bright December sunlight, needing to convince herself that it was really he.

"Ranger."

Over grey sweat pants that had "ARMY" screen printed down one side, he was wearing a wine-colored Henley and a worn leather bomber jacket. His running shoes were white, not black. And he looked like he was thinking about smiling.

"What are you doing in Newark?" he asked her, his hand never leaving her neck.

"I, um, had an emergency."

Instinctively, his hand went to the back of his waist where he normally kept his Glock and he began to scan the area for threats. "Skip? Stalker? Why didn't you call RangeMan for help?"

She couldn't help it. She burst out laughing. "Not that kind of emergency, Ranger!"

"Explain," he said, his hand still on his gun.

She sighed and chewed distractedly on her lower lip. "I picked up my mother's Christmas order from Giovinchinni's yesterday, but I didn't check it and neither did she. Mom realized just this morning that the eel that she had ordered was missing. She called first thing, but they were completely sold out."

"So the Plum family eats eel?" His tone was incredulous and she saw some of the tension leave his shoulders.

"Old Sicilian family recipe for the Feast of Seven Fishes tonight… my dad says it wouldn't be Christmas Eve without it."

"The Plum family eats eel," he repeated, as if he still couldn't believe it.

"Really, only my dad," she admitted with a shudder. "I'll take the fritto misto and clams oreganata any day. But last year he tricked Albert into trying it! You should have seen Albert's face when he realized what he was eating!" She laughed so hard at the memory of her brother-in-law's horrified expression that a tear rolled down her cheek. "So anyway, my mom called all over Trenton this morning, but apparently, everyone is fresh out."

"Go figure," he said dryly.

"I know, right?" She shot him a world-class eye roll. "Lucky for me, Perfect Fish still had a supply, so I was dispatched to Newark to save the Plum family Christmas."

As she spoke, she tilted her head toward the fish market down the street, where a line of customers spilled out onto the sidewalk.

He wrapped an arm around her waist, really just to make sure she didn't stumble on ice, and together, they made their way to join the line.

"You still could have called," he reminded her.

She cocked her head at him, trying to imagine how Tank, or Hector, or Lester would have responded to an eel emergency. It was unlikely that the RangeMan Standard Operating Procedures regarding Stephanie Plum, _yes, she knew about those_, covered _that_. She opted for a little shrug. "Anyway, I figured you were out of town."

Really, it was a guess on her part. Ranger didn't usually inform her about his travel plans but since she hadn't seen him at the bonds office for more than week, she just assumed… She blinked back a tear, no doubt due to the biting wind that was suddenly blowing down Ferry Street and the too-bright December sunlight. She shivered and cursed that she had left her gloves in the car. He tucked his hand under her chin and forced her to meet his gaze.

"The installation in Boston took longer than expected and we finally finished early this morning. I'd hoped I could get back to Trenton for a few days, before I needed to leave for Miami and my annual visit with Julie, but…" His voice trailed off. It was so cold he could see his breath. His words seemed to crystallize and hang in the air between them.

She surprised them both, when she finished his sentence for him. "But now you're doing some undercover gig in Newark?"

His eyes widened in surprise and then crinkled at the corners. He _was_ smiling… all two hundred watts. Before she could zip up her coat, he tugged on the front of her sweater, pulling her close to him and wrapping her glove-less hands around his waist, so they would be protected by his jacket.

"My mom threatened to disown me if I didn't show up to celebrate Christmas this year." He paused. "And she absolutely forbids black at the holidays."

They were chest-to-chest, so close so that she could feel his heartbeat.

"So what are you doing at Perfect Fish?" she asked breathlessly.

"Same thing you are, Babe. Errands for my mom." He tugged on the sides of his leather jacket, wrapping as much of it around her as possible.

It took every ounce of her self-control to not let her fingers wander, tracing the sculpted muscles of his back. She bit her lip, trying to concentrate. She was so distracted that all she could manage was an uncharacteristic, one word response. "Explain."

"Perfect Fish sells the best oysters in Newark."

"Your family celebrates the Feast of Seven Fishes too?"

"No," he replied. "The oysters are for tomorrow morning. My mom was so caught up with plans for tonight that she nearly forgot about brunch. My sister, Celia, was dispatched for tomato juice, horseradish, and vodka, and I was sent to pick up the oysters."

"Oyster shooters on Christmas morning? Is that some sort of Cuban thing?"

"More like a Newark thing… or maybe just a Manoso thing."

He cleared his throat and walked her backward as the line inched forward. "The Cuban thing is the pig roast my family has every Christmas Eve."

"Pig roast," she repeated slowly. "You mean like pork chops and ribs… that kind of thing?"

The corners of his mouth tipped up fractionally. "Chops, ribs, and everything on either side. The whole pig."

Her forehead wrinkled in confusion and when she finally worked it out, her mouth fell open in surprise.

He tucked a thumb under her chin and gently pushed it up. Of course, he knew exactly what she was thinking. "No, Babe. It doesn't fit in the oven. My parents have a special barbecue pit in their backyard."

"You have a Christmas Eve cookout? What about the snow?"

"It wouldn't be _la Noche Buena _without the _lechon asado_." He ducked his head so he could whisper in her ear and she shivered again. This time, though, it had nothing to do with being cold. Something magical always seemed to happen when he spoke Spanish to her, and she was happily falling under his spell.

"My brother, Rafael, flew in from Miami two days ago, so he could go with my Papa to choose the pig. Yesterday, my mother and my aunts prepared the marinade from a family recipe that has been handed down for several generations. When I left this morning, Rafael and Celia's husband were helping my father build the fire, and my sisters were wrapping the pig in banana leaves."

She found herself leaning into him, so his lips almost brushed the shell of her ear when he spoke.

"When I get back, the house and the yard will be full of people, playing bongos, telling stories, celebrating, while the pig roasts."

"Your whole family will be there, even Lester?"

"The whole family and half the families on the block," he affirmed. "And unlike me, Lester never, ever misses Christmas Eve. Who do you think plays the bongos?"

He took in her look of disbelief and chuckled. "Honestly, you have to see it to believe it. Someday, you'll have to come with me."

"Someday," she said a little sadly. "I'd like that."

The line moved again and together, they crossed the threshold into the store. Now that they were inside, she really didn't have a good excuse to keep her hands tucked under his jacket. She slid them gently across his back with the idea of extracting herself, however reluctantly, from his grasp. In response, he pulled her closer, and rested his chin on top of her head.

He tucked a brown curl behind her ear and muttered, "Thank goodness you didn't forget the baccala. Then Christmas really would be ruined."

"No time to soak," she agreed. "Now _that_ would. be a disaster because my mom's cod cakes are divine… my favorite part of the holiday after Christmas cookies." She pulled back a little, so that she could see his face. "But what the heck do you know about baccala?"

"Cuba's an island, Babe," he smirked. "No shortage of fish there, including salt cod."

"Huh." She was still working on a snappy retort, when he spoke again, his voice softer than usual. There was an emotion reflected in his eyes that she couldn't quite identify.

"It was my Aunt Elena. My uncle married an Italian woman, and she made the most amazing baccala fritters every Christmas Eve."

"You actually ate them, Ranger? Something fried?" Now it was her turn to be incredulous.

"The Temple takes a day off on Christmas Eve, Babe." He touched his forehead to hers, and for a moment, she thought he might kiss her.

"Hmm…will she make them for the party tonight?"

He took so long to answer that she began to curse herself silently. He'd been uncharacteristically open today, but clearly, she'd pushed her luck and now he was pulling away. She tried to take a step back from him, sensing that he needed some space, but he tugged her back. Finally, he just shook his head, and gave her a sad smile. "My Aunt Elena died two years ago from ovarian cancer."

They were both so lost in thought that neither noticed that they had reached the front of the line. For him, the man who was always aware of his surroundings, that was distinctly unusual. For her, not so much.

The fishmonger behind the counter was wearing a green polo shirt embroidered with the Perfect Fish logo, a red Santa hat, and a nametag that said "Mario." He grinned at them expectantly, waiting for their order. "So what'll be today?" he asked.

"I called about the eel? For Plum?" she finally stammered.

"Sure," Mario answered. "Wouldn't be Christmas Eve without the eel." He gestured to her left, asking, "Which one of those looks good to you, Miss? Just pick the one you want."

That's when she noticed them, resting on a bed of ice near the front counter. Three fat eels with shiny blue-black skin, beady eyes and sharp teeth.

She gasped and turned away, _How did my Italian ancestors turn eating sea monsters into a holiday tradition?_

Fortunately, Ranger realized her dilemma. "She wants the biggest one," he said calmly. "And I need three dozen Blue Points."

"Skinned and gutted?" Mario asked cheerfully.

She managed a strangled '_Ughh' _before burying her head in a henley-clad chest. Of course, she could tell that he was shaking with silent laughter, but she assumed he'd given Mario the green light to slice and dice the eel.

In a moment, Mario was back. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation. Now no disrespect to the women in your families, but my wife makes the best _frittelle di baccala_. In fact, she's in the back frying up some for a late lunch. I thought you might like to taste one while I tend to your eel."

The fishmonger held out a red napkin and one perfectly crisp, piping hot baccala fritter.

Murmuring her thanks, she reached out and accepted Mario's offering. As soon as she took a bite, she moaned. "Omigod, he's right. Don't tell my mother, but this is the best cod cake I've ever eaten." She held the remaining half up to him. "Ranger, you have to try it."

He shook his head slightly. "No thanks, Babe. It's all yours."

She took another bite, a smaller one this time. "Honestly, you don't want to miss this."

Just when it looked as if she might be convinced to eat the last bite, he caught her hand and brought it to his lips. He sucked her thumb and index finger into his mouth along with the last morsel of cod fritter. He nibbled gently at her fingertips, letting his tongue trace them again and again.

His eyes were obsidian, when he finally released her hand. "You're right, Babe. That was one of the most delicious things that I have ever put in mouth. Addictive, really." His next words were so soft that she almost didn't hear him. "And I do miss this."

Behind the counter, Mario cleared his throat. "Here you go. One eel, cleaned and prepped, and three dozen oysters. I put them in two separate bags, but maybe you just want one?"

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Stephanie remembered her 'Burg manners. "No, thank you. Two bags are perfect," she said with false brightness. Honestly, '_perfect'_ wasn't the word he would have chosen.

The bags tucked in his left arm, his right hand at the small of her back, they headed for the door. As they exited the market, she couldn't suppress a laugh. There, parked at the curb, just outside the door, was his Turbo.

He walked her down the street to the Buick and waited, while she searched through her bag for her keys. There was an awkward moment, when she finally found them. In truth, they were both a little disappointed.

"Babe, I have a Christmas gift for you, but it's at Haywood."

"Yeah, I have something for you too. At home."

He cleared his throat. "So I'll see you, when I get back from Miami?"

"I suspect so. We're bound to run into one another at the bonds office."

"You going to Shorty's for the New Years Eve party?"

The RangeMan New Year's Eve party was legendary. At an all-RangeMan meeting held at Haywood at six pm, Ranger and Tank talked about the successes and failures of the last year, the goals for the coming year, and passed out bonuses. Then, all but a skeleton crew headed to Shorty's to ring in the New Year.

"I'll be there," she confirmed. Her thoughts wandered briefly to the new dress hanging in her closet.

"You planning on taking a date?" His tone was casual and he was pretty sure that his facial expression gave nothing away. After all, as RangeMan CEO, he was ultimately responsible for the party. He reasoned that it was important to have an accurate head count for the food… right?

"Hadn't planned on it," she replied distractedly. Then a thought occurred to her that made her feel as though she was punched in the gut, and she couldn't breathe. Was he trying to tell her that _he_ was bringing a date? She turned to look at him as she asked, "You?"

"Babe."

After she was settled in the driver's seat of the Buick, he buckled her seat belt around her, brushed a soft kiss across her lips and muttered "Don't go crazy, Babe."

They both knew that was Ranger-speak for, _Be safe driving home, OK Babe?_

Her usual response, _Don't get shot_, didn't really seem appropriate, when she knew he was going to be spending the afternoon at his parents' house. She went with the only thing that she could think of in the moment.

"Merry Christmas, Ranger."

She gave him a smile and a finger wave and watched as he headed back toward Perfect Fish and the Turbo. As she turned the key in the ignition, the car filled with soft music. Christmas music. She thunked her head against the steering wheel, as the lyrics washed over her.

_This is my winter song_

_December never felt so wrong_

_Cause you're not where you belong_

_Inside my arms_

**SARA BAREILLES - WINTER SONG **


	2. New Year's Eve

_A/N: A big hug to Dog in the Manger, not only for her excellent beta skills, but also for providing key details for this story. Perhaps most importantly, she shared some of her holiday traditions with me, and then I began to wonder about what holiday traditions Steph and Ranger had (as always, Steph and Ranger belong to JE)._

Her Christmas tree had seen better days. The branches sagged toward the floor and the slightest touch set off a shower of brittle pine needles. They stabbed her feet every time she climbed out of her bed and walked to the bathroom, a painful reminder that _holiday_ didn't always guarantee _happy_.

Unlike most people, she always set up her little tree in a corner of her bedroom. It's not as if she really did any Christmas entertaining, and she really liked to watch the multicolored lights blink on and off as she fell asleep.

Her mother would be horrified, _It was already New Year's Eve, for chrissakes_, but she couldn't take it down, though. Not yet. A lone gift remained under the tree, wrapped in silver paper with a big blue bow.

_We match_, she thought, staring at the present.

A definite splurge, the skater dress showed off her figure perfectly: nipped in at the waist, but with a full skirt that ended well above her knees. It had a simple scoop neckline, but a deep "v" in the back that almost reached her waist. The best part was that the dress was covered with silver sequins. It was brilliant… literally. The sequins reflected the lights of the tree so that it was almost as if she was covered in hundreds of tiny sparking rainbows.

She heard the locks on her front door tumble and her heart twinged with something that felt like hope. There could only be one person breaking into her apartment on New Year's Eve.

"Happy New Year!" she called out to him. "I'm so glad you're here. I could use a little help with the zipper on this dress."

"Tan hermosa." _So beautiful_. She felt his breath on the back of her neck and his hand on her ass as he tugged up the zipper on her dress. And it was all wrong.

She spun to face him, one hand on her hip.

"What the hell, Hector!"

The man with the teardrop tattoos winked and grinned at her. "I'm gay, Angel. Not blind. And you look _muy_ _deliciosa_." The way the words rolled off his tongue made her smile in spite of herself.

"Hector, what are you doing here?" she asked, more confused than angry.

"Boss Man sent me." Hector shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at her thoughtfully for a moment. "He planned to come himself but something came up. He ask me to drive you to the party."

She slipped her feet into blue glitter pumps with five-inch heels and let Hector help her with her coat. She didn't speak again until they had exited her apartment building.

"He let you drive the Turbo?" she asked, astonished.

Naturally, the Porsche was parked in the spot closest to the door. "He know you love it, Angel," Hector murmured as he buckled her seatbelt around her.

With a nod, she acknowledged her feelings about the boss' car. By silent, mutual agreement, they didn't discuss her feelings about the boss.

The party was in full swing by the time they reached Shorty's. As she crossed the threshold, Cal planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek. He grinned sheepishly and pointed to the mistletoe someone had tacked above the door.

Suddenly, he grasped her hands and pulled her toward the makeshift dance floor, just as the DJ queued up a Devo single.

"Come on, Bombshell, they're playing our song," Cal told her.

_We like explosions that leave you feeling good _

_We like ideas that change the world for good_

She danced with Cal, then Woody. When Binkie pressed a glass of champagne into her hands, she smiled her thanks and took the opportunity to slip off the dance floor to find Hector.

He was in a booth in the far corner, his back against the wall. He motioned for her to slide in next to him, but she remained standing.

"None of them are here. Not just Ranger, but I can't find Bobby, Tank, or Lester either. The entire core team is MIA."

Hector shrugged a little, giving nothing away. The implications of his silence suddenly came rushing at her like a freight train, making her grip the corner of the table with her free hand.

"No. No, that can't be. Don't tell me they're all in the wind. Isn't there anyone else available to go save the world on New Year's Eve?"

She stopped, took a breath and tried once more. "Talk."

Hector placed his hand over hers. "Not in the wind, Estephania. St. Francis."

"Omigod. What's happened to Ranger?" The glass of champagne shattered as soon as it hit the floor, but the sound was swallowed up by Pink, blaring from the large speakers.

"Not Boss Man. Tank. Emergency surgery."

"And you didn't tell me this when you picked me up at my apartment… why?" She was already headed toward the door, the remark tossed over her shoulder. She should have known that she couldn't outrun Hector, though. Certainly not in heels. He was suddenly at her side, one arm around her shoulders.

"I tell you Ranger want me to take you to party. You say OK. You not ask why. You didn't push. You never push him, chica." Hector reached out and stroked her cheek. "Not about anything important."

_~oOo~_

She spotted him immediately, when they entered the nearly empty waiting room at St. Francis. Uncharacteristically, he was slouched in a chair in a corner of the room, his eyes closed and the bridge of his nose pinched between his thumb and index finger. She took a step toward him and his eyes flicked open.

"You didn't have to come," he said flatly. "You should be at the party."

"Tank's my friend too," she answered, her voice soft.

"The surgeon said not to expect news until well after midnight. There's nothing you can do for him right now. "

"You're probably right," she replied. "But maybe there's something I can do for you." Her eyes scanned the waiting room once again. "Lester and Bobby?"

"Bobby's actually credentialed as a scrub tech here. They were a little shorthanded because of the holiday and so he's helping out in the OR. Lester's probably in the chapel."

She crouched down in front of him and placed a hand on his knee, trying to get him to look at her. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

He closed his eyes again and was silent for so long, the sound of his voice caught her by surprise, when he finally began the story. She realized that she had never seen him look so sad or so tired.

"The year we started RangeMan, we bought a bottle of fifty-year old Glenfiddich scotch. It's become a tradition to pull it out once a year. After the all-RangeMan meeting, just the core team gets together in my office. It doesn't matter whether we've had successes or failures over the past year… we drink to our friendship."

The wool of his Armani trousers was soft beneath her fingertips as she began to trace small circles over his knee in what she hoped was a soothing gesture.

"Tank poured the scotch and we all raised our glasses in a toast. And then he collapsed."

"Christ, Ranger. What happened?" Her hand tightened on his leg and she suddenly felt a little lightheaded, as if she might lose her balance.

"There was so much blood, but there was nothing that we could do."

"I, I don't understand," she stammered.

"Gastrointestinal hemorrhage, Babe. Massive bleeding from the intestines. It's a rare complication of Crohn's disease."

Her eyes widened, not able to conceal her surprise. She'd heard of the condition, but really didn't know much about it. She'd certainly never suspected that anything was wrong with Tank.

"Crohn's Disease is a kind of inflammatory bowel disease," he offered, sensing her unspoken question. "Five years ago, we'd just finished a job in the Middle East. When Tank developed abdominal pain and diarrhea, we thought he must have just picked up a parasite. But he didn't get better once we got home. He had sores in his mouth and couldn't eat. He lost more than sixty pounds."

"Honestly?" She tried unsuccessfully to imagine Tank minus sixty pounds. A svelte Tank just wouldn't be, well, Tank.

"The worst part was that he had no energy. He was wiped out after running just a couple of miles. After he passed out in the gym one day, Bobby drew blood and when the tests showed severe anemia, he insisted Tank have a colonoscopy."

Now talking about _any_ kind of butt stuff, especially diarrhea and colonoscopies, always made her uncomfortable, but she tried to be brave. For Tank.

"But he doesn't look sick," she protested. At least, he hadn't when she'd seen him earlier in the week.

"Fortunately, medication has worked really well for Tank… that, plenty of exercise and a healthy diet."

"That's why you have all of those rules at RangeMan? They're for Tank?"

"Babe, you may have noticed that Tank loves to eat." She nodded. She and Tank definitely had that in common.

"All of his favorites—pizza loaded with sausage and mozzarella, fried chicken, his mama's macaroni and cheese—all have the potential to make his symptoms worse. It would be torture if he had to watch everyone else eat those sorts of things."

She had a sudden pang of guilt about all the times she had convinced Tank to sneak away to Pino's with her. She was wondering about the harm she might have caused with her junk food craving when another though occurred to her.

"It's why he doesn't go with you." Whenever he left town, Ranger always told her to call Tank if she needed anything. Tank was a constant, never "in the wind" that she could remember.

"Tank retired from… government work after the diagnosis," he confirmed. "Running RangeMan fulltime suits him. And we figured there would be better access to medical care in the _unlikely_ event of a complication."

He wasn't a man who allowed much room in his personal or, God forbid, his professional life, for emotions. That's why the unexpected pain and sorrow in his voice nearly broke her heart.

"He's going to be OK, Ranger." Still crouched in front of him, she laid her head on his lap and hugged him as best she could from the awkward position.

She was doing her best to offer him support and comfort, to not let him lose hope, when she heard a loud sigh. Since there didn't seem to be anyone else in the room but the two of them, she assumed it came from the man who never sighed. He grasped both of her hands, pulling her off the floor and into his lap. He settled her so that her head was nestled on his chest and he could rest his chin on top of her brown curls.

"Stephanie Michelle Plum, why is it that every single plan I've ever had concerning you has gone totally and completely FUBAR?"

"You've had plans that concerned me?" She was joking. Mostly.

"Babe." He looked at her in disbelief, before he let his finger caress the exposed skin at the small of her back. She thought she might have seen a fraction of a smile when he said, "Pretty." Then the frown was back. "Not that I'm not glad that you're here but you belong at a party, not in a hospital waiting room. I'm sorry-"

She shifted slightly on his lap and pressed a finger to his lips to hush him. "I'm exactly where I belong." She was thinking, _hospital, with you_. He was thinking, _my lap_. "If it makes you feel better, we'll go to Shorty's, when Tank is better and have our own party to celebrate the New Year."

"I don't give a damn about Shorty's. We weren't going to stay there long anyway."

"No? What could possibly be better than the RangeMan party?"

"I thought we could celebrate New Year's Eve in the city."

"The city? We were going to see the ball drop?" She meant it as a joke. No sane Jersey resident would actually _want _to go to Times Square on New Year's Eve unless… "Don't tell me you have tickets for the party at R Lounge?"

"Someday, Babe. If you really want to go." But tonight he had made other plans.

"My sister, Celia, and her husband have a place on Central Park West. They always have a New Year's Eve party." He hesitated for a moment. "Obviously, you can't see the ball drop from their terrace but you can see the fireworks."

Her mouth fell open. "You were going to take me to your sister's New Year's Eve party?"

"I was going to ask if you wanted to go. Really it's just family and a few of Celia and Julio's closest friends. I don't usually go, but at Christmas, Celia tried to make me promise—" He broke off, the conversation with his sister replaying in his mind. The party was a safer topic.

"It's nothing glamorous, really. Too much food. Too much alcohol. Dancing when everyone's had too much of both. My parents make brunch for any stragglers, who are still around in the morning, and in the afternoon, my niece and nephews always con a few brave souls to take them ice-skating in the park. Typical Manoso family party," he finished with a little shrug.

She let out a little breath she had been holding. "And you needed a date for this party?"

"No, Babe. I needed you." _Still do_, he thought as he wrapped his arms around her and tried to pull her even closer to him.

Her face was pressed tightly against his chest, muffling her voice when she eventually spoke.

"Ranger?'

"Babe?"

"Celia has the party every year, right?" There, on his lap, she felt rather than heard him chuckle."

"Yeah, Babe. Every year. It's a date for next December 31st."

Twenty-five minutes before midnight, she reluctantly climbed off his lap and excused herself. He assumed she was headed for the ladies room, or maybe the vending machine down the hall. Ten minutes later, he saw that his assumption had been wrong.

"Hungry, Babe?" He took in what she had carted back from the cafeteria. "New Year's resolution to change your eating habits?"

Cradled in her arms, she had at least ten small plastic containers filled with fruit salad. She'd purchased every last one from the refrigerated case near the cash register and had asked the girl on duty to go to the kitchen to look for more.

"I wanted to make sure we had enough grapes," she told him as she sank down into the chair next to him. "I know we need twenty-four and I couldn't really tell how many were in each container."

"Babe, how..." he began. His voiced trailed off as he watched her pile chunks of cantaloupe and honeydew melon on a paper napkin that she had spread on a small table next to her chair.

She didn't look up. She was studiously avoiding meeting his gaze as she consolidated just the grapes into two of the small plastic cups. "Twelve grapes." Her voice was soft. "One grape for each month of the new year. Cubans eat one grape with each chime of the clock at midnight… for luck." She finally met his gaze. "Un deso por uva." _A wish for each grape._

He had often been called a man of few words. This time, though, he was utterly speechless.

Not uncharacteristically, she was the one who broke silence. "A few days ago, I had to call Lester to help me with a skip. I was curious about… the pig. So I asked him." She was hesitant, gauging his reaction. "He decided to teach me about a few other Cuban holiday traditions."

"And he told you about the grapes." It came out as a statement rather than a question. He had the proof right in front of him.

"On the stroke of midnight, we'll eat the grapes, one right after the other, and we'll each wish that Tank comes through the surgery and is healthy in every month of the new year. That's twenty-four wishes." She paused, looking hopeful. "It has to work, right?"

For the second time that night, he tugged her into his lap and this time, he nuzzled her neck. "It has to work," he agreed. "But would I be a bad friend, if I kept just one wish for myself?"

She meant to ask him about his wish, but a moment later, they heard the church bells at St. Joachim begin to ring, signaling the start of the new year. She fed him a grape and then another. As the echoes of the twelfth and final chime faded away, they finished off the last of the grapes.

"Feliz Año Nuevo, Ranger." It came out like a sigh. She meant the holiday greeting to be her last wish… a happy new year for all of them.

When he bent his head and covered her mouth with his, the kiss was sweet… and a little sticky. She tasted the grape juice on his lips.

"Feliz Año Nuevo, Babe." He meant it as a promise.


	3. Epiphany

_A/N: Thanks to everyone for reading along. Special thanks to Dog in the Manger (again!) for her amazing proofreading skills and her plot suggestions. I wouldn't have been able to post this third and final chapter without her._

She shifted lazily on the bed and adjusted her pillow.

"Where do you think you're going?" she asked him.

"Time for a break?" he suggested, standing up and heading for the bedroom door.

"Come back here," she told him. "I'm not finished with you."

"Steph, it's been fun, but we've been at it for hours!"

"But you promised!" She stuck out her lower lip in a pout.

"So I did." He looked as though he was thinking about sighing. "I told you we could play whenever you wanted, but –"

"What's the matter? Ex-Special Forces Bad Ass like you can't keep up with a little white girl from the Burg like me?"

"That might be the problem," he admitted, taking another step toward the door.

She looked up at him through lowered lashes. "Tank, I usually don't have this much trouble keeping men in bed with me. You're supposed to be resting and if you don't want to play Call of Duty: Black Ops any more right now, I understand, but you have to stay in bed. Those were Bobby's orders." She tossed her game controller onto the nightstand and patted the empty spot next to her on the comforter encouragingly. "Want to watch a movie instead?"

He was going stir crazy. He'd been in the hospital for a week before he'd been discharged to an apartment on four. Both Bobby and his surgeon had worried that it was too soon, but he'd promised to do exactly as he was told: stay on bedrest and take his medication. Now he was feeling better, and he longed to spend a couple hours in the gym, or his office, or the gun range… But when she smiled at him, he sighed and took two steps back toward the bed. There wasn't a RangeMan who could refuse Stephanie anything when she smiled. He wondered briefly, if she had ever figured that out. She had all the power.

Tank was ready to admit defeat and head back to bed, but the ringing of her phone forestalled further discussion of a movie. He groaned in relief, but she glanced at the incoming number, smirked and shook a finger at him.

"Uh oh. Now you're really in trouble."

"I didn't take you for a tattletale, Little Girl." He wasn't whining… much.

"Yo," she chirped into the phone.

"Yo, yourself, Babe. How's the patient?"

"Getting cranky," she answered. "You need to order him to get back on this bed with me."

"Is that really in my best interest, Stephanie? You and Tank in the same bed?" The voice in her ear was husky and of course, she understood what he didn't say. _Playing with fire, Babe._

"Tank's still restricted to bed rest, and I've been sitting _on_ his bed next to him playing video games. But now he's refusing to play, claiming that I've worn him out." She stuck her tongue out at Tank for good measure.

"I'm thinking Tank's a lucky, lucky man. I remember the last time you wore _me _out in _my_ bed."

She wondered if it was possible to actually _hear_ a wolf grin through the phone.

His thoughts strayed to less comfortable territory. _That day, I was the lucky one… so what the hell was I thinking, when I let you leave?_

"Aw, Ranger, you're not jealous, are you?" Her tone was light, teasing.

"That depends, Babe. What are you wearing right now? And what were you wearing when you slept in my bed last night?"

Tank saw the almost instantaneous change in her reaction. Her face was suddenly serious, and she twisted one of her brown curls around her index finger. "So, Bobby told you that I've been staying on seven?" She laughed nervously, bracing herself for his reaction. "I really hope that's OK. A couple of the guys came down with the flu, so after spending the afternoons with Tank, I've been doing evening monitor shifts with Hal. Lester needed help with the McClellan account and I had to finish payroll for Bobby, before the client meeting at eight, but you know I'm not exactly a morning person—"

"Babe," he interrupted softly. "I'm really glad that you're staying on seven. I don't know how RangeMan would be running without you."

He hoped she heard the gratitude in his voice. Neither of them had left Tank's side for three days after the surgery. Then, on the day that Tank had been transferred out of the ICU, an urgent call had come from Rachel. Julie had been hospitalized with a ruptured appendix and he was on the next flight to Miami. He had thought he was on his way home the day that Tank had been discharged from the hospital. The call from Washington was completely unexpected. _Not an official deployment_, his handler had emphasized, _just a personal favor for the Commander-in-Chief_. How could he refuse?

With him and Tank both out of commission, Bobby and Lester had been overwhelmed with the daily details of running RangeMan. Without anyone actually asking, Stephanie had stepped in to fill the gap.

He knew that she had been working at his desk, because she couldn't access payroll or the programs she needed for classified searches from her cubicle. He'd heard from Bobby that she was grabbing quick naps on the couch in his office instead of going home to sleep and finally had to be convinced to go to seven to get a little rest. He couldn't understand why she suddenly sounded so anxious.

"I'm just trying to do what I can to help," she offered.

"I promise, I'll make it up to you when I get home_." I have to make up for so many things, _he added silently.

_No price, Ranger_, she thought, hoping his ESP came with a long distance plan. "And will you be home soon?" She hated to ask him for anything, especially information, but the question just slipped out and, when it did, she couldn't take it back.

"Soon," he promised. "Very, very soon."

She was still worrying about whether he was annoyed with her question, when he asked, "So, Babe, you never did tell me what you were wearing last night?"

She laughed again, but this time she didn't sound nervous at all. "It's not exactly like I keep pajamas at your place, Ranger. My choices are to sleep in one of your t-shirts or-" she let her voice trail off suggestively.

When the call ended, her phone landed on the bedside table next to the game controller.

"So… you ready to watch a movie now?" she asked Tank.

"Damn, Little Girl. Thank God, that's over. There has been a fair amount of kinky threesome stuff in my bedroom, but I don't think I'm really comfortable listening to the two of you have phone sex. "

"Stop," she cried, flushing crimson to the roots of her hair. "It wasn't like that."

"Honestly," he said. "The foreplay was bad enough."

"I'm warning you, Tank. You're still far from one hundred percent, and I've been practicing takedown techniques with Lester three times week. Stop, or I'll make you stop." _It could happen_, she told herself.

Suddenly, his voice was serious. "I'm proud of you, Little Girl. I wasn't sure how long those workouts with Lester would last."

In truth, she had only agreed to them in late November as a way to work off her Thanksgiving carbohydrate load. Some days, she was just as surprised as Tank that she hadn't given up.

"I'm finally getting the training that I need, and Lester gets to grab my ass every once in a while." She shrugged a little. "It works for both of us."

He chuckled and rubbed his hands over his bald head. "When did you get so sassy, Little Girl? I don't remember you calling any of us out on our shit, before I got sick."

He watched her eyebrows arch up in surprise, as she sucked her lower lip between her teeth, as she always did, when she didn't quite know what to say. It wasn't the reaction that Tank was expecting, and he knew that he needed to explain.

"Sassy's a good thing," he told her gently, settling down and wrapping one arm around her. "We all need to be called out once in a while." He tilted her chin up so she was forced to look him in the eye. "_All_ of us."

~oOoOo~

He stood in the doorway to her darkened bedroom, leaning against the jamb, his arms crossed over his chest.

"So, Babe, you gonna leave that tree up until March, so you can hang Easter eggs on it?" The corners of his lips tipped up and he tilted his head toward the dried up little tree in the corner with the multicolored blinking lights.

"What?" It was hard for her to sound defensive, when she was only half awake. "So you've never heard of the twelve days of Christmas?"

"Epiphany, the twelfth day, was January 6."

"_El Día de los Reyes," _she mumbled. "But the three kings couldn't find you because you were out of town, so I haven't given you your Christmas gift yet." She thought the box wrapped in silver paper made the reason for the tree self-evident.

_Oh, but you have, Babe_, he wanted to tell her. "When I landed, I pulled up the location of the tracker on your car, and I was surprised to see it at your apartment," he choked out instead.

When she flipped back a corner of the comforter, a silent invitation for him to join her, he was at her bedside in two strides.

"I really thought you'd still be on seven when I got back," he told her, toeing off his boots.

She stretched and found herself wide awake. "I had to stop by my apartment to check my mail and pick up some clothes for tomorrow. It was just too tempting to take a nap in my own bed. Guess that's a good thing because RangeMan won't need me now that you're back, and Tank is almost ready for light duty. Things can get back to normal," she added a little sadly.

"RangeMan will always need you," he said. He bent his head to kiss her, but she turned her head at the last minute.

"And what about you, Ranger. What do you need?"

He pulled back enough to look at her, debating. "What I want—"

She put a finger to his lips, meaning to stop him from completing the sentence. "I didn't ask want you wanted. I asked what you needed. Tell me what you can't live another day without."

"You," he said simply. "I need you."

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. She snuggled against him, letting her body press tightly against his for a long moment.

"I get that," she said. "Your body isn't hiding really well what you need right now, and I'm not opposed to the idea, but that's not what I mean."

He reluctantly put a little space between them. "That's not what I mean either, Stephanie." He took a deep breath. "What I'm trying to say is that I need to never spend another holiday without you."

Her heart was racing and her head was spinning, but Hector's words to her on New Year's Eve echoed in her brain.

"Explain," she whispered back.

"Valentine's Day. St. Patrick's Day. Hell, Groundhog Day."

"Ranger!" He heard the frustration in her voice, along with a hint of pleading and maybe something else.

As he rolled away from her and stood up, she felt a sharp pain in her chest that felt very much like a shattering heart. So much for pushing.

He had actually brought her Christmas presents with him, both of them: the bracelet of lapis and gold links he had bought this year because the color of the stone reminded him of her eyes, and the gift that had sat in his safe for the last two years, because hadn't had the nerve to give it to her.

He stuck his hand in the pocket of his cargos, fingering the small box. "You're right," he said. "My life doesn't lend itself well to being home on holidays, as the last couple of weeks have proved. No guarantees that I'll be able to be with you on any of those days. I'm not going to make you promises that I can't keep."

She pressed her face into the pillow, letting the fabric of the pillowcase absorb the tears that were rolling down her cheeks.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and scooped her into his arms. Settling her against his chest, he reached into his pocket to retrieve a small black velvet box. He tucked the box into one of her hands, gently kissing away her tears. "The one thing that I have no trouble promising you is the _home_."

She stared at the box for a moment. When she flipped it open, she just stared at him questioningly. Inside the box was a key. A plain brass house key like they sold at Keith's Hardware Store.

"I don't understand," she stammered.

"Seventeen Melody Lane," he said. "It's right on the water in Brielle. The tradeoff for the privacy means there's a drive to the Boardwalk in Point Pleasant, but it's a short one."

"You're giving me a key to the BatCave?" For a moment, she couldn't breathe.

"Babe, I own buildings in Trenton, Boston and Miami, and I have an apartment in each of them. I have a boat in Florida that's big enough for a weekend on the water, and the core team and I own a little place in Aspen together because we all like to ski." He paused and looked at her, checking for understanding. "I hope you won't be too disappointed that the one and only BatCave is hidden beneath Wayne Manor."

She giggled a little at that, a hint of a smile visible through the tears "So you're giving me a key to a house you own at the shore?"

"Babe, this is for our house, at least that's what I intended, when I bought it." The look of disbelief on her face forced him to rush on with the explanation. "I mean, our jobs wouldn't make it practical for us to live there all the time, but I thought that this could be the place that we spent time alone… maybe the place we put up our Christmas tree." He stared pointedly at the dried up remains of the little tree in the corner of the bedroom.

"When did you buy this house, Ranger?" Her fingers traced the ridges on the edge of the key.

"I bought it after the first time you told me you loved me," he said. "After Scrog."

"But I didn't tell you," she protested. "I knew it but I never told you." _I didn't think it was what you wanted to hear_, she added silently.

He squeezed her hand. "But you did, Babe. You sat by my bedside and whispered it again and again, while I was still unconscious. You told me to come back because you loved me."

"You heard that?"

"I was drowning, Babe, and it was as if you threw me a life preserver."

"So you've known all this time. Why the heck didn't you say something… or _do _something?"

"After… after Scrog took you—"

"After he nearly killed you," she interrupted.

"I needed time to think and plan. By the time I found the house and came back to Trenton, you were back with Morelli." Suddenly, all of her anger and frustration were diluted by regret.

"But you _knew_," she sputtered, thinking about all the time they had wasted.

"I _hoped_," he told her gently. "If you only said it, when you thought I was dying, I didn't think that counted."

She remembered what Tank had said to her, and it gave her courage. "So what changed?" she asked him. "Why now?"

"You fed me a grape," he said. "And you told me to make a wish."

As the first rays of dawn filtered into her bedroom, they lay side by side on the bed. She was tucked into his right side, her head on his chest and her hand over his heart. He had arranged the top sheet so it covered them… mostly. The heat they had generated made the comforter unnecessary and it lay crumpled on the floor.

"Ranger," she asked sleepily. "What did you wish for on New Year's Eve?"

"For Tank to be healthy and for us to have a Happy New Year."

"That's not very specific," she told him. "There's all kinds of happy."

"Not for me, there's not," he answered, looking into her beautiful blue eyes. "For me happy only looks one way. _This way._ You and me… happy… together."

_And from then on, they were. _


End file.
